


Bela: In My Time of Living

by crowleyshouseplant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bela Talbot character sketch--brief femslash</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bela: In My Time of Living

[first snow]

Bela skates her hand across ice-glazed picket fences. The cold nips her cheeks, reddens them with love bites. It seeps through her shoes, slush wetting her woolen socks. Her palm is slick with water as the ice sweats under her body heat. The cold numbs its way up her fingers, settling somewhere under her last knuckle.

She wonders if the tips of her fingers are chilled. She sticks them in her mouth, molars crushing against the leathery skin until the dull weight of the pressure sparks an ache deep in her joints, her tongue curling around the rubbery pads of her fingers.

They’re cold and taste like snow.

[after a cold shower]

She closes her eyes. She dips forward, hair falling over her face, a curtain from the other woman’s gaze as she nibbles her jaw line, nuzzles the softening ridge of her cheekbones, traces the slope of her profile, licks the arch of her brows before breathing butterfly kisses over her eyes shuttered in prayer as she gasps her name:  _Alex, Alex, Alex—_

Bela rubs their clits together, fingers clamping down tighter around the other woman’s wrists, holding her hands high above her head. Her pulse scuds against Bela’s palms. Bela tightens her grip, burning bruises past the woman’s flesh into her bones, the woman’s bird-frail wrists nestling in the cradle of her palms. Bela’s finger pads rest loosely against something that may be skin, may be rough cotton pillow cases as Bela presses kisses to the woman writhing beneath her with her lips, wetness and spit and sweat oiling their skin as they grind against each other.

[heat wave]

Cat pants on the countertop, too lazy to move from the wedge of sunlight burning its way through glass and muslin curtains. Bela, sweat pearling her skin, dripping rivers into the small of her back, strokes Cat. His tail curls around her elbow as he reaches for her, his back paws curling around her lower arm (claws catching at her skin), his front legs folding her wrist to his chest. She cups his jaw, and he rubs his whiskers against her hand. He licks his sand-paper rough tongue up her thumb. Flashes of pink smooth their way across the pad of it, his fangs a dull pressure as he bites down on her scar-glazed flesh. A bead of blood wells, trickling first, then tickling as it slides down her skin.

[last day]

She’s a little allergic to Devil’s Shoestring—but she’s more allergic to dogs. She sneezes as she drags a chair to the door, then kicks off her high heeled shoes before climbing onto the seat of it. Looking over her shoulder, the room twisting into red tinged refracted reflections, the shadows leering at her, fanged with demons and plated with black-rimmed eyes, she tucks the dried branches over the doorway. Her eyes are heavy, so she rubs whatever it is away with the tips of her fingers, and then they cry in earnest now because she’s gotten pollen in her eye and her finger pads are streaked with yellow mud. She wipes her hand on her slacks, then takes the Colt from her purse. Her fingers know the body of a gun, and it comes apart under her hands. She cleans each part, oils it, fits it back together again. The weight of it in her palm is not as heavy as the weight in her stomach, the trigger nothing but air against her gun-greased fingertip as it just waits for her to squeeze it home.


End file.
